“Can I help you?”
“I’d like a room,” he said.
“Just you?”
He breathed in the question and held the words in his chest until they burned.
“Yes.”
“How long will you be staying with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not a problem. You just let me know.” She reached into a drawer in front of her and pulled out a card that she slid across the counter toward him. “If you could fill this out for me, I’ll get your key for you.”
He stared at the registration card, the tip of his pen hovering just above the line for his name.
Ron Murdock.
The line for his address stopped him. He could have left it blank. But the dark blue car hovered in the back of his mind, with the images of movement just outside of his vision and the sense of eyes crawling along his back. They were getting closer. But that wouldn’t stop him. He had only one focus now.
Emma.
He wrote down an address that wouldn’t lead her to his home, but to hers. One she might not remember, but that was crucial for her to understand. She needed to know who she really was and where she came from. She deserved to know what happened to her mother.
Sixteen years. That’s how long Emma had wondered. Those questions shaped her life. They would continue to twist it, destroying who she was and could be, until she had the answers. He wanted her to know who her mother was and what really happened that night and the days after. He needed her to know why her life had changed.
If she was anything like Mariya or Ian, she would find what he left for her, even if she never heard his voice.
He accepted the keycard and made his way to the elevator. It stopped on the top floor, and he walked out into a dark hallway. Beside him, the sound of the elevator grinding back down to the floor below started the clock. Time ticked by, second by second, as he looked for the emergency exit. Dark carpeting barely dampened the sound of his boots as he ran to the end of the hallway and slipped through the door to the staircase. Swinging himself over the metal railing, he dropped down on the flight below, so he could exit onto the floor and hit the elevator button. Metal doors closed in front of him as the time ticked lower. He counted his breaths.
The woman at the desk watched him walk through the lobby and out through the doors into the parking lot. He was steady and calm. She wouldn’t see anyone else. The steps led to the back of the hotel, to the emergency exit.
He got into his car and headed for the woods. Heartbeats throbbed the passing seconds against his temples and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The train arrived half an hour ago. He needed to get back to the cabin.
His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror to check for the navy-blue car. It wasn’t there. Not yet.
He took turns he didn’t need to, ran lights like they weren’t there. It made his trip longer, but it might steal him time.
The woods were dark by the time he barreled into them and cut the lights. Dropping the glove compartment open, he tore the corner of a piece of paper and took out a pen. One more clue. Just in case. She needed to know he knew who she was.
Emma Griffin.
Tossing the pen back in the glove compartment, he took his phone out of his pocket. Typing a message, he sent it and slipped the phone in with the pen. He threw the keys under the driver’s seat and headed into the woods. The winter air bit at his skin as he headed for the cabin. Lights sweeping through the darkness stopped his steps.
He stuffed the paper low in his pocket and ran. A car door slammed, and footsteps crushed leaves and branches to one side. Breaths pumped out white and opaque against the night, caught briefly in the moonlight as he broke out of the trees onto a well-worn path. Another train called in the distance, orienting him.
The cabin was behind him. He went too far.
But he didn’t get a chance to turn. Before he even heard the sound of the bullet leaving the gun, he felt it slicing through the air into him. Pain seared into his back, lighting his muscles on fire. He pitched forward roughly, clattering to the ground in a convulsing heap. The impact knocked the breath out of him, but he fought to drag it back. He could dimly hear the sound of footsteps approaching. But these stopped when more came from the other direction. Someone was coming, and the man hunting him wasn’t expecting it.
The shooter ran, leaving him for dead, but he kept drawing in breaths. Slow and steady, not noticeable. He stayed only until the footsteps faded into the night. He stumbled to his feet, still wracked with pain, and looked into the trees in front of him, trying to see who was there. Something moved. A dark figure stepping from behind a tree to look at him. It was only for a second before it melted into the darkness. Maybe it hadn’t been there at all.
He turned, counting the seconds, counting the breaths, and pushed through the trees again. The cabin was in the distance. Close enough now to see the edges silhouetted against the dark. The glow of the outside light stood out against the moonlight, showing just the front of the car in the driveway. She was there.
Everything around him was fading. His vision blurred. His steps slowed. But he talked to her. She couldn’t hear him, but he needed
